The Favourite
by Emma Lynch
Summary: One rainy, drunken evening, Molly confesses something ridiculous to Sherlock, which he dismisses as utterly ridiculous until ... it isn't. When he can't stop thinking about what she told him, Sherlock feels chastened and decides upon a course of action leaving his friends bemused, Molly confused and himself on the horns of a dilemma he has thus far failed to consider. Sherlolly!
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1: Drunk**

Molly squinted purposefully at the road sign.

Her vision was usually 20/20 but an even dispersal EtOH throughout her bloodstream had rendered her retinas redundant (she giggled as she considered telling this to a taxi driver - if she could ever find a taxi driver) and it seemed a gargantuan task to decide which trunk road took her to the north of the river.

If only she hadn't needed to visit the cash point.

Sarah's imminent nuptials had somehow proved more costly to prepare for than even Sarah had anticipated and the hen party had done nothing more than corroborate this.

Taxis, cocktail mixing, purple skinny dress purchasing, more taxis, overpriced avocado toast and Champagne toasting, macaron nibbling, purple satin shoe buying, more taxis, brightly coloured cocktail drinking and finally, overpriced nightclub entering had all added up to the national debt of a small South American dictatorship and she had found the need for an enhancement of funds.

"I'll meet you at 'The Sumatra Lounge'!" she'd yelled, purple heels clicking wildly on damp South London pavements as she'd scampered on ahead.

"Don't wait here, it's raining! It won't take me a minute - I know there's a cash point just along from Kebab Junction … no, don't wait! I'll find you!"

Ah, the confidence of the newly inebriated.

By the time Molly realised that Kebab Junction was probably a figment from too many late night viewings of '999 - What's your emergency?', the streets had become less familiar and the signs more … blurry.

"Oh crap."

She fumbled, adjusting a purple strap and glaring down at currently detestable purple heels. Both had proved themselves woefully inadequate protection against damp South London nights and harsh South London paving stones. She teetered, slipping off one shoe (good) then (eventually) the other (blissful) and hooked them stoically over one finger, surveying the black, wet, empty street in both directions. Orange tungsten lit the tarmac and a distant train could be heard rumbling by three streets away. Even the sirens were quiet where the streets had no name and Uber no signal.

She sighed. And hiccuped.

A station with a possible taxi rank was her best bet. Sarah would be worried but she'd have to wait for better signal and the only way to find it was to walk barefoot amongst the London detritus, like a Dickensian orphan selling matches.

Doctor Molly Hooper hitched her sandals over her wrist and her hen party tiara back amongst her piled up hair. She could do it. God, she'd done worse.

**~x~**

"Hold up the tarpaulin!"

Like bastard cousins, the wind had swiftly followed the rain on its decisive stampede all over his precious evidence and Sherlock's temper was frayed to its fragile limit.

"Can somebody please bring me some light? This is our only tangible hope of evidence against Christie and I seem to be the only one giving a damn about said evidence!"

Feet scuffled and another howl of wind carried away any reciprocal words which would've served as answer from several members of the Met, who had been savagely buffeted by the demands of Sherlock Holmes for the past forty minutes.

Sherlock crouched down, his Belstaff flapping around him, his scarf billowing about his face causing more agitation until a firm, calming hand pulled it down and accompanying voice muttered into his ear.

"Greg's having a tent brought over in a minute so hold onto your knickers and dial down the complaining. These people have just arrived. Not everyone's on your timescale Sherlock."

Sherlock dipped his head, furious, but mercifully silent.

"I know this is important, Sherlock. A man has lost his whole livelihood in pursuing this murderer."

Sherlock crouched lower, as if his body would shield the ground from the elements.

"You want to help him and you will, but you need everyone else here, so be nice, OK?"

Sherlock turned his head, dark hair plastered to his head, glacial eyes radiating a heat that burned through the buffeting storm.

"What would be the point?" he said, scowling through the rain.

**~x~**

The alleyway was sheltered (as if he cared) so at least his cigarette stood a chance of ignition. With Lestrade's idiots trampling all over what the rain had spared, he had withdrawn himself and his fury to a more 'socially amenable venue' _(John Watson)_; already swiping through three other possible methods that would lead to the apprehension of the wiley George Christie in his mind palace.

At first he thought he was hallucinating, since thirty hours without food could do that to a brain (his brain anyway - Sherlock had no idea how normal brains dealt with things).

But no.

_Purple._

Dress, shoes held in her hand, nails, earrings. Even her exposed skin was tinged with violet as she came closer through the tungsten-lit darkness, and he could also see that she was small, drenched, clearly lost, woefully underdressed and as she neared, remarkably familiar.

"Why are you wearing a tiara?" He asked, staring quite rudely.

"Oh thank God," whispered Molly Hooper as she stared blearily up into his eyes. "Thank God it's you."

**~x~**

"Molly Hooper? She's here?" John's inability to corral even the most basic of facts was contributing further to Sherlock's black mood, and even further irritated by him craning his neck to get a better view.

"She's wearing your coat. And a tiara?"

"She's going home. I'm getting her a taxi."

More peering, followed by waving, which was vigorously reciprocated by Molly, bangles clanking and enthusiasm returning as her body temperature climbed back to normal within the Belstaff.

"She's a bit dressed up for helping you on a case, mind." John was beginning to enjoy himself. "You should have just said and I could have been at home with Rosie and Iggle Piggle instead of holding one corner of your tarp on a filthy night like this."

He could tell Sherlock was replying through gritted teeth as his evidence bags were blown hither and thither by another gust.

"I didn't invite her. She got lost and stumbled onto our crime scene halfway through a … " John didn't help him. "Through a _hen party_. She's a little cold, but absolutely fine and as soon as the taxi arrives …"

John was grinning further as Molly had stood up, still clutching the coat and weaving through several _Scene Of Crime_ officers and puddles to reach them. Some of the weaving wasn't strictly necessary.

"She's hammered."

"So it would seem." Sherlock's fingers fumbled with the bags, the cold making him clumsy.

"You seem a bit distracted," John didn't offer to help him with the bags.

"I'm incredibly busy and these constant interruptions have succeeded in denigrating this investigation into little more than a farce."

The streetlights highlighted the diamante crown sparkling through Molly Hooper's damp updo. Her lashes were huge and clumped with wetness. Mascara was chasing down her cheeks which were pink and dewy, like apples. Beneath the Belstaff, John noted a glimpse Cadbury's purple satin, mirrored by the torturous looking stiletto heels she clutched in her left hand. She swayed a little but still seemed remarkably cheerful in her bare feet.

"Hello John! I've lost my hens!" She looked around, as if they were somehow hiding behind the nearest bins.

"Bad luck. Was it Sarah's do? Mary was invited but we've just bought a new boiler and macaron-making isn't top of the priorities right now. You rung 'em?"

Molly snickered, ducking down into the recesses of her upturned collar.

"They're so ma-ad! No-one will be washing my beakers on Monday morning I can tell you!" She laughed again and John could swear he heard a deep sigh emanating from his ex-flatmate's direction.

Mercifully, two huge black cab headlights turned the corner into the yard, where someone kindly lifted the police tape to let it through.

Molly Hooper saw it too, gathering her shoes, her bag, her tiara (and then her shoes again) and peeling off her loaned coat, offering it back to Sherlock, who was kneeling down next to a messy pile of petrol-soaked detritus in the corner of the yard.

"Thanks so much for this … Sherlock," she held it out with two hands (being heavy and rain-soaked) "and that," she gestured to the taxi. "You saved my life tonight - "

Sherlock's shoulders stiffened and John folded his arms, watching this play out.

Sherlock stood, leaving the oily porridge to look down into the Bambi-wide eyes of Molly Hooper, standing tiny, damp and strangely powerful in all her amethyst glory.

"A trifle melodramatic. You were cold, I gave you a coat. You needed transport, I rang you a taxi." Boredom (his constant go-to to distract others from his huge heart) left his eyes and he really looked at her.

"I'm not a hero, Molly Hooper."

She stared up at him as the cab drew up, the thrum of its diesel engine beating through the exchange like a pulse.

"No… no you're not a hero." He opened the door and she half stepped, half fell inside, but recovered quickly, leaning out of the door he was closing.

"But you are … you are … "

The cab signalled, windscreen wipers sloshing water across, left and right, the tick-tock of its indicator blinking between them.

"You are … one of my most_ favourite people_ … you truly are."

Both men stood side by side, all evidence of crimes redundant for those few seconds as they watched the brake lights fade and the cab turn left, then right, then disappear into the early hours of a London morning.

The storm appeared to have suddenly lost its former energy, offering a limp ripple across puddles and a barely perceptible drizzle as a reminder it had ever been there. Greg's white tent stood like a sentinel as police tape hung festooned around it, almost redundant as a new day dawned.

"Well, wasn't that - "

"Shut up John."

"OK. Time to go home."

**~x~**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2: Sober**

"I like making you a boiled egg, it was always your favourite."

Sherlock flinched at the word, and was seen to flinch.

"Well, I'll be downstairs then."

Mrs Hudson rarely flounced, but when she chose to, even Sherlock Holmes sat up and took notice.

He ignored the egg and retired to the sofa to solve remotely. Five emails in and he felt faintly assuaged by telling Jonas Whiteley that his red hair was not a genetic quirk but rather a conversation he should have with his mother, and that four zoo keepers at Edinburgh zoo should not feel guilty regarding their brown bears' weight loss.

There was a noise.

It was a ringing sound.

It was a phone.

It was _his_ phone.

It was Molly.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"No need." Automatic.

"I trampled your crime scene."

"You were the last in a long line." He was gabbling. He never gabbled. "Glastonbury has slightly less traffic than my crime scene last night."

There was a pause.

"You know about Glastonbury. You know some _pop culture_."

She seemed genuinely shocked.

"There has been a murder there every year since 1987. No one ever realises."

A pause.

"So, I must apologise for last night."

"No."

"I stomped over your … evidence. I ruined your coat."

"I have many coats."

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I was a bit tipsy. I'm not hen party material."

Good, thought Sherlock, randomly. _Good._

He gathered himself.

"It's fine."

"You're kind. I have had to grovel to several people today. Unbelievably, you've been the easiest."

_Unbelievably._

"I - I'm fine with … it." He searched.

"We've all been there," he added. Goodness, John would be proud of that one.

Strangely, Molly coughed, then suppressed a small giggle.

"Really?" She said. "OK."

After she hung up, Sherlock found himself walking around the flat, touching things but not solving anyone else's problems. He seemed to have acquired a fair few of his own.

He'd been the _easiest_.

He was someone who lent coats and called taxis and saw the diamonds that clung to her hair, glinting in the darkness.

He was one of her _favourites_.

One of her _favourite people_.

How had _that_ happened?

And had she just forgotten telling him so?

Sherlock cared so little for the opinions of others he was currently astounded to find an actual pain radiating from his sternum to his throat as he thought of those eyes, that peachy mouth, that soft, blurry smile (_oh God)_ when she'd said it.

"_One of my favourite people."_

"_My favourite."_

"_Favourite."_

He reached beneath the sink and closed long fingers over the square bottle.

It was 11.30 am and he needed a drink.

**_~x~_**

**Part 3: Little Favours**

"So you want access to two bodies."

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

She shifted. Uncomfortable. Conflicted. He didn't care. He wanted the bodies.

""The paperwork has already gone through."

He leaned it, looking at her hair and finding she'd changed it. He'd use that. It always worked didn't it?

As she led him away towards the morgue (meal unordered, hair self-consciously patted) Sherlock felt a little less victorious than he might have done.

**~x~**

"Molly!"

She was clearly going out, and to meet a friend she hadn't seen for (he considered) - at least three years - someone she'd tried very hard to keep in touch with.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out."

He didn't have time to consult since time was of the essence and she'd probably take a while to explain about the lunch date. He closed both hands about her shoulders and spun her back the way she came without pause.

"No you're not."

She had good reason to tell him to go to hell and to shove his Quavers where the sun didn't shine, but she didn't did she?

She missed lunch once more and spent her precious time helping him. Again. Without complaint, without rancour.

Molly Hooper did not play fair.

**~x~**

"I need a body."

She stared. She knew what he was going to say, but he still needed to say it.

"It needs to look like me. My height. My size. My colouring."

They look at each other for maybe a minute. She closed her eyes and a tear squeezed down.

"I'm sorry Molly." He didn't know why, but he was.

She swallowed. Eyes closed. Tears leaking. For the first time since the plan had been countered, he (suddenly, viciously) wanted to cry, to howl, _to wail_, until everything stopped being so … _appalling._

"Yes," she said. "I can do that. Yes." More tears leaking out. Neither one acknowledging them.

"Molly, it isn't me. It _isn't_ me. I'm not dead."

Suddenly, her brown eyes flashed open, bright and wet.

"You are." Her voice hitched a little and his throat ached.

"You are now," she repeated.

And he so wanted to touch her, but he didn't.

**~x~**

"But enough about Professor Presbury. Tell us more about _your_ case, Mr Harcourt."

Sherlock held the gaze of his client but Molly was in his periphery, nervously clutching a notebook and pen, sitting in John's chair as if it was about to burst into flames. He'd so wanted to thank her for her impeachable strength, her loyalty during his hiatus, but now she was sitting there, poised to assist once more, he could see what it really was.

"Are you sure about this?" She hissed as he strode past her, the clients befuddled by his speed of thought.

"Absolutely." His certitude impressed even himself.

"Should I be making notes?"

She still just wanted to help; to help him. She found no real joy in this.

"If it makes you feel better."

"It's just that that's what John says _he_ does, so if I'm being John …"

Oh, this had been a horrendous mistake. If only he'd retracted the offer the moment he'd seen the engagement ring. Almost forgetting the goggle-eyed clients he slumped down in his chair, offering a final lifeline.

"You're not being John – you're being yourself."

Still being selfless. Still helping _me_.

**~x~**

Sherlock put the bottle back unopened.

He couldn't drink since he'd promised to look after Rosie while Mary was at the dentist and John at work, and he'd found substance abuse to be low on the list of babysitting must-haves.

"Take this - "

Mary's habitual lateness usually assured handovers were brief and to the point which usually suited him.

He turned the blue stuffed toy of indeterminate heritage over in his hands as Mary unloaded enough luggage for a Victorian explorer to map out a dark continent rather than basic provisions for a teething two year old girl.

She stopped, mid-unload and tapped the blue creature gravely.

"Whatever you do, don't lose it Sherlock. It's the only thing she'll chew when the teeth are bothering her; it's her go-to, her favourite."

He sighed.

"Well, I'd better take good care of it then, hadn't I?"

He held it up to Rosie who gleefully squeaked and pulled it possessively from his grasp.

"Mine!" she crowed, victorious.

"Yours," agreed Sherlock. "All yours my dear."

He watched her scamper into the kitchen in search of biscuits until he felt a hand on his shoulder and Mary's soft words in his ear.

"_Yes_," she said, speedwell-blue eyes finding his and tone rich with implication. "Whatever you're asking yourself at the moment, the answer is always _yes_."

**~x~**

* * *

**A/N: **

**Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and comment/favourite/follow - you are truly lovely.**

**This is set post S4 with one major alteration (so sue me). **

**The story is 6 chapters long. **

**:)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 4: Reciprocation**

Molly liked eating lunch with Greg.

He always agreed to swap sandwiches (unless it was egg - _horror_), brought crisps and was appallingly indiscreet with NSY gossip, which she never tired of.

"I'll believe you when I see the x-rays."

"I'm telling you Molly, it was up there. He thought a miniature Eiffel Tower would distract us from the half kilo of cocaine, but it just made it more … _scenic_."

She spluttered coffee all over the table which was, she considered later, typically the _perfect_ time for Sherlock Holmes to arrive, all glossy and sculpted and _Botticelli-esque_ in his Prada and his arrogance. It didn't help at all that she'd been a hot mess the last time he'd seen her too. She remembered very little of her midnight traipse around South London, but seeing as she'd arrived home wearing a coat she very much did not go out in, she kind of pieced it together and vowed to apologise then never mention it again.

Thinking it was a Greg-related interruption, she was rather astonished when she heard her own name.

"Molly, I have new evidence that I imagine will please you greatly."

"Oh?" She had no idea what he was referring to, but there was an unusual glint of pride behind his pale eyes which gave him an air of … humanity.

"Mr John Scott Eccles."

He waited, but no bells were ringing and she shook her head.

"How recent? It might be something a couple of mon-"

"2009. July 14th. Unexplained death. Sister inherited several fruit farms and was sent down for his murder, ending a lifelong feud between them."

Molly stared, but she'd learnt how to recover quickly to give her brain the chance to catch up.

"I - I do think it sounds familiar… _apricots_?"

"Yes!"

By this time, he'd pulled up a chair and drained the nearest coffee, which also happened to be Greg's.

"Cheers, Sherlock."

"Later - " he waved vaguely at the detective inspector, eyes never leaving her face, as if awaiting a sudden epiphany. When none immediately arrived, he filled in the gaps.

"Apricot kernels to be precise. According to witnesses, for over twenty five years, Mr Scott Eccles celebrated the restorative powers of his crop by taking a tincture of ground apricot kernels, in minute form, each evening."

"Oh, oh my goodness!"

"Precisely. His sister didn't poison him, he gradually poisoned himself and she took the blame."

Greg shuffled, both fascinated and baffled in equal amounts.

"So, you're saying - ?"

Both heads turned simultaneously.

"Cyanide."

"You sure?"

Sherlock held up his phone.

"I've emailed you the documents and witness statements."

"I think I've probably seen all of the - "

"These happened today." He smiled brightly as Lestrade got to his feet, pulling his own phone from his jacket. "Best get the Governor at Pentonville on the phone. Twelve years is a long time to prepare a civil prosecution against the police."

Molly nipped his arm lightly as the inspector scampered out of the cafeteria, but her eyes told him how pleased she was.

"I remember it all now; I really felt for Miss Scott Eccles. The case seemed so open and closed and the jury only saw a rift and the person who'd gain the most from his death."

Sherlock felt ebullient within but bit it down. He remembered it in precise, eidetic detail, of course. Molly had felt something was amiss, but the jury had decided that the mortar and pestle, acetone, castor beans and funnels found at the victim's home were used by his sister instead of himself.

Then she was looking at him closely, and he sensed there would shortly be questions. Why could a person not do a good deed for another person without the need for questions? He merely wished to tie up a loose end for her, since the case had given her sleepless nights at the time. He'd wanted to help _her_ for a change, to redress a balance that was very much in his favour. All of these years she had selflessly helped him without the expectation of anything in return, and still she had the - the _temerity_ to call him her favourite person! It lacked logic and balance, and duty decreed he would need to actually need to earn this dubious epithet.

Unexpectedly, she seemed to change her mind, merely softening her expression into a warm smile and patting him (a little more affectionately this time) on the forearm.

"Thanks Sherlock. I'm so glad you looked into that case again. It _did_ bother me and I couldn't be happier that justice will finally be done for that lady."

Her eyes sparkled, despite the lack of sleep from the broken drainpipe adjacent to her bedroom window and the fact that Rosie's strange blue teething animal was still at _his_ flat when Molly baby-sat the child the evening before, at _hers_.

"You're a good guy, Sherlock," she added.

But he knew it wasn't enough.

**~x~**

"It's fine, honestly! It just gave me a bit of a fright, that's all."

Mary Watson watched her carefully (she missed nothing, ever).

"It'd give _me_ a fright, mate! Bill Wiggins hanging outside my window at 6 oclock in the morning without so much as a by-your-leave."

"He was fixing my drainpipe - you make it sound so sinister, as usual!"

"Molly, it IS sinister, and the fact that Sherlock didn't give you a heads-up about it is even more weird."

Molly shrugged. She felt strangely protective of Mr Holmes right now, but couldn't quite explain why.

"I suppose it never occurred to him. He saw a problem and he fixed it."

"Bill Wiggins fixed it!"

"Yes, since he's a surprisingly skilled plumber."

"And cat burglar."

Mary sipped her tea as she surveyed the scene of Molly's unusual wake-up call that morning. The pipe had been leaking for months, resulting in constant, torturous dripping every time there was rain. There had been a lot of rain. The repair looked impressively secure and professionally done which (shock aside) would have saved the new(ish) homeowner quite a bit of time and money.

"What's he up to?" She held her mug, cradling its warmth.

"Mary, he was just fixing my - "

"Oh, I don't mean Wiggins," she replied.

**~x~**

A little like seeing John Bellingham's heart still beating four hours after his dissection, or a scalpel in the cutlery drawer at home, Molly was a little taken aback at the incongruity.

"Sherlock, do you know what time it is?"

She put down her laptop on the steel countertop so that she could button her lab coat, adding:

"Birds are welcoming the day with their song, the bins are being collected at Smithfield, there's still fresh coffee in the canteen - "

He spun round on her lab stool, goggles and assuredness remarkably in place.

"I know," he pushed forward a thermos. "I have some right here. For you," he added, in case she needed clarity.

"Umm… Thank you." She picked up the thermos, taking a sniff. It was delicious.

"You're wondering what I'm doing here, taking into consideration the Godforsaken hour and my usual habits."

"And your aversion to filing and typing up of reports (you doing this is pretty illegal by the way), and your customary aversion to the staff canteen … "

He waved her words away impatiently.

"Yes, yes, a tiresome litany and one I hope to relegate to past mistakes."

He pulled off the goggles, reducing the bunsen flame to a mere glow.

"I really just wanted to … tie up any loose threads you may have had, since the recent flu epidemic, the bus crash at Shoreditch and Mike's secondment to The Royal Marsden will have combined to play havoc with your off-duty this week."

Her eyes widened, glancing at the calendar pinned just above his head.

"Yes, the wedding," he confirmed soberly. "So many staff members attending can only result in chaos and cancelled leave, probably yours. Ergo, I have cleared the Barbour case notes, the Valerian autopsy and was just testing out a theory for the Fotheringill asphyxiation case."

She was still searching for words, which he seemed to construe as delight.

"If you let Sarah down, you will never forgive yourself. Several receipts you dropped in the locker room last week indicate your indecisiveness regarding her wedding gift. I personally think the slow cooker to be a little hopeful where Ms Gnezere is concerned, but you clearly are feeling the weight of maid of honour duties on your shoulders and the last thing you would need would be further obstacles."

She sat at the bench, suddenly a little tired. Her mum was phoning constantly late at night, worrying about almost everything, and it would often be the early hours before she got to bed.

All he'd said was irritatingly true, but -

"Why … ?"

"To _help_ you of course. I would like to be of help to you."

His eyes showed no mockery, his face no ulterior motive.

She gave in.

"Sherlock, that is all crazily and excessively kind of you, but I'm sure I'd have still got the time off - "

"Unlikely."

She knew he'd actually hacked the hospital's emails on more than one occasion, so instead she said:

"Thank you," and it felt nice, so she added:

"This whole wedding is actually quite stressful to be honest. I've only just found out about the _bridesmaid dance_."

He sat up, alert.

"Pray, continue."

"Oh, it's so stupid." She swigged a little more coffee, because - why not?

"Sarah's sprung this one on me - apparently I'm to choreograph a bloody routine for myself and the other bridesmaids to launch into at the wedding, just after the speeches. Sherlock, I am good at dissection, but I am no dancer!"

"That's quite alright," he smiled benevolently from his stool.

"I am."

**~x~**


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 5: Realisation**

Molly adored the warm weight of a lively and lovable toddler in her arms. Bar the hair pulling and saliva, it was a favourite sensory experience. She really felt loathe to give it up under any circumstances.

"Give me the baby."

Especially when she could hide behind it.

Mary looked at her as though she was holding grenades (or prosecco).

"It's no trouble. You just carry on with what you're doing," attempted Molly Hooper weakly.

Mary held her gaze and her arms out. The implication was clear, but Molly felt bereft; naked.

Five minutes later, the only thing Molly Hooper had to juggle was a brimming glass of Chardonnay and her conscience.

Mary began benignly, as always.

"How's your week been? Anything besides coffee and corpses?"

"That's actually the name of my new tea room!" joked Molly Hooper, but she'd misjudged her audience.

Mary Watson threw her perkiest smile across the cosy sitting room, adding:

"And Sherlock's_ paso doble_?"

Molly refused to blink as Mary spoke again.

"How was that?"

**~x~**

Her flat was too small, so it was Baker Street, with the chairs moved back.

He wore shirt-sleeves rolled high and she an expression of distinct uncertainty.

"Please, you must relax Molly."

She looked at him, all straight backed and delightfully tailored, and found that his undeniable beauty merely fuelled the fires of her fear. This was a huge mistake; she should just call a taxi -

"Trust me," he said, holding up two hands, glacial eyes showing warmth, showing kindness, but also ...

_Intent._

_His arms are strong (you have to trust me) and my posture uncertain (what would you do if a bull was charging?)_

_Hips forward, character set, strong stamp and he takes you forward into a promised direction, but in a count (four? six? eight?) he moves you (chasse cape) and changes your direction. He does this many times. His arms are warm and firm and strong._

_You spin and turn until your head swims and your heart races; you're worried you might gasp for air, fall over, or both. But you know he won't let you._

_Hands held tight, clenched. His warmth is close and real and guiding you through. Hard and soft, a soft curve of your arm, across his body, until he quickly, suddenly pulls you closely, then rotates your whole self left, then right (the count of eight - it's eight!) and you are dizzy._

_{don't break your focus - look at me Molly - each turn then focus back and catch my eye - focus}_

_(Warm hands behind my neck, then down to my waist, then twist - count eight) and he takes me back, the opposite way… hips forward, sway from the bull, dance to the death (light fingers across my neck, turning me without force or effort) falling back; trust and stamp and change and pull towards his bone-hard chest, then pushed away, strong, controlled. _

_We breathe and hearts hammer, like punctuation._

_God._

_His hand flexes, long fingers stroking my wrist, then down my forearm, leaving heat in their wake -_

_(chasse cape, hands and arms; apel to stamp and mark the time until - )_

_I almost gasp out loud and my heart slams as he swiftly, deftly turns my body away, like he controls my path._

_(could he?)_

_(Breathe, for goodness sake)_

_I look at him then - face set, brows drawn down, colour high against his pallor - and I know he means it._

_Stay dramatic._

_Stay arrogant._

_Stay strong and the bull will not get you._

**~x~**

She cannot bite down the smile and takes a swig of wine, hugging her knees to her chest.

"Well," Molly says, honestly. "It wasn't really bridesmaid material."

**~x~**

"So I hear you and Molly Hooper are having sex now?"

John slowly turned the page of the broadsheet he was hiding his face with, with maximum rustle.

"Not having sex, we were dancing." Sherlock actually sounded bored, like he'd had a thousand other sexual dalliances to deny.

"I'm teaching her how to dance. John, so do encourage your wife to elevate her mind from the gutter occasionally. "

"Sex, dancing a raunchy Latino tango... Virtually no difference, if behind the scenes shenanigans on _Strictly_ are any guide."

Sherlock had been stringing his violin when John had last checked from beyond_ The Times_ crossword, but he sensed the plucking had lessened.

"I can make little sense of your last comment, suffice to say, we were learning a paso doble which mostly originates from France to be entirely accurate. Molly needs to learn to dance in time for her mortuary technician's wedding; l have some dancing experience-"

"You dog!"

"- and the pasa doble is a useful starting point, since it covers all of the essential elements needed when learning the mainstays of any modern dance. The turns, the_ apels, the chassees-_"

John put down his paper, viewing his ex-flatmate (and best friend) beadily.

"You are doing a tremendous amount for Molly right now. Cold cases, home repairs, mortuary assisting, now _Strictly Come Bridesmaids_?" John cast away his taunting instantly.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

With a barely discernible sigh, Sherlock lay down his violin, picking up a cold cup of coffee and grimacing when he drank it. He opened his mouth twice to form a word and twice closed it. John watched the intriguing spectacle of Sherlock Holmes being actually lost for words and considered his question more seriously. Sure, Sherlock liked Molly Hooper as much as he liked Mary, or Mrs Hudson, Greg or even himself. He relied on her goodness, her generosity, her kind heart on an almost daily basis and had been respectful of her role in his life for some years now.

So what had changed?

The shrill beeping of a phone punctuated a heavily laden atmosphere, resulting in Sherlock in his Belstaff, taking the seventeen stairs two at a time.

"Come with me John!" His words rose, bouncing up to the sitting room to where John was already looking for his coat and gloves.

"It's Mr O'Donal from the zoo - they've found them!"

"Mary's on night shift - I'm afraid I have to get back home."

"It's _literally_ a barrel of monkeys! Rosie's favourite!"

"Fantastic! We'll catch up at breakfast."

And as his ex-flatmate cheerily slammed shut the front door, John suddenly remembered that stormy night two weeks ago and gathered his coat with a sigh.

"Oh Sherlock," he murmured quietly as he stepped out of 221B.

**~x~**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: minor character death in this chapter**

* * *

**Part 6: Out of favour**

It had been so quick.

One minute checking a shopping list in Sainsbury's, the next, lying across their tiles, haemorrhaging slowly but inexorably into a brain that ultimately would not bear it.

Molly was elbows deep in Mrs Baxter's stomach at the time and she didn't even hazard a guess at such an atrocity until he touched her shoulder and she saw his eyes.

"Molly - your mum …"

Pushing down her mask but not switching off her buzz saw, she calmly said:

"Say you're sorry and I will not hesitate to use this. I promise you Greg - _I promise_!"

But he pushed it away, and he held her tight.

**~x~**

Sherlock tried to garner his thoughts and focus on what Molly's newly-married APT was actually saying, despite not recognising the symptoms of shock he saw in others being present in himself.

Unused to his friend's lack of discourse, John Watson stepped in, proffering what Sherlock could not.

"This morning? Oh, Jesus. Poor Molly!"

Mrs Hooper had fallen in her home a few weeks ago, but older people fell sometimes didn't they? They were patched up and they got better.

Didn't they?

"I - we're so very sorry Sarah."

Sherlock watched his face as he clasped this casual acquaintance's hand in total warmth and sincerity; so genuine and without agenda. The purity of true empathy.

Sarah ducked her head, clearly feeling the burden of her friend's grief; visualising, imagining her pain and living it just a little in her own head.

"Yeah, I know. Molly only spoke to her the night before and you know, Mrs Hooper was fine - absolutely normal. Less dizzy, steadier on her feet."

Sherlock's thoughts raced. Transient ischemic attacks preceed haemorraghic strokes less frequently than blockages in the blood vessel, but they can often herald such an event days or hours before. Without seeing the autopsy notes, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps he could speak to Mike -

Eyes bored into him as he looked around the room and it was clear an expectation of sympathy was required, even in the absence of the bereaved it would seem. Everyone seemed to blithely accept a tragedy as it was randomly doled out without even wanting to find out -

_(heart racing, breathing quickening)_

Without wanting to_ investigate_ -

_(hands flexing, fingertips prickling)_

Without wanting to _discover_ -

He closed his eyes, feeling John's hand on his shoulder.

"You OK? You're white."

_Without being able to make it better._

**~x~**

Work had become all pervasive, all encompassing. There was little time for anything else. No filing, no home repairs and certainly no dancing.

It was the work that mattered.

His work changed people. It changed their lives and the way they lived them. Usually (although not always) the wrong-doers were exposed and the good people had their retributions; the scales were balanced. Things were made right.

Had he not received countless accolades, gifts even? His inbox was populated by the lost and the miserable, the hopeless and the hopeful, the people who had almost given up when the authorities had failed them and there was no-one left to turn to.

He did good things every day. He was feted, admired, _famous_.

He didn't need to be anyone's_ favourite_.

He had nothing to prove.

**~x~**

It had been four weeks when one Tuesday morning, there came a knock at the door.

John was at the hospital and Mrs Hudson at the podiatrist, where Sherlock hoped a lighter footfall could be engineered, therefore benefiting any lover of peace and quiet in Baker Street.

Thus, he was reduced to opening his own front door without the mixed blessing of a preamble to gather his wits.

She stood, straight and strong; unbowed by her grief, but carrying it within her, like a rock wrapped in velvet.

She wore a cherry-red coat he'd never seen before, hardly-worn but the tell-tale signs about its buttons and elbows that indicated a previous owner, mostly likely her mother, had kept it for best. Her hair was noticeably longer and uncharacteristically hanging loose and waved about her shoulders, and her hands raw, nails chipped and uncared for.

"Molly - " he began, her name feeling unused and foreign on his tongue. "I - "

"You're a bastard," she said, calmly, and he felt the sting of her words like the slap he deserved.

**~x~**

She stood in the hallway and the clock ticked dark and heavy through oppressive silence.

He had been a hair's breadth away from begging her to come inside before she'd sighed a little, losing some of her energy and now standing there at the newel post, his stairs a mountain still to climb.

He did not know how to move forward; he didn't want her to leave but could not imagine how to make her stay. He had wanted to repay just a little of what he owed her, but could not accurately calculate how to make recompense.

Eventually, he knew it must be him to speak first.

"Yes," he said, standing in a proximity dictated by the space and their obstinacy.

"I am so very sorry Molly."

_(because your mother has died and I could do nothing to change that)_

He lowered his eyes, still feeling the heat of her gaze.

_(because, as feted as I am across this world, it is your opinion that matters most)_

Pale light from the street filtered through the dusty fanlight, picking out glints of copper in her hair; the swell of a tear beneath a lash.

_(because I desperately, compulsively, overwhelmingly need to be your dearest, chosen, very best person)_

Molly sighed slowly and he watched her small (beautiful) mouth gradually form words, in 960 fpm slow motion as his brain sped forward, unstoppable in his conclusions.

_(I wish to be deserving of your favour, always) _

"Apparently," she began, breathless and slightly higher than her usual range, "you've been busy. Abroad even."

He'd been in Stuttgart on the day she'd buried her mother, and Copenhagen for a week following.

He had (ridiculous, naive, childlike) wanted to make her life better, to help, to make some atrociously self-indulgent type of recompense- and ultimately, he could not.

Molly stood before him, in grief, in pain - and there was nothing he could do to make it better.

His synapses glowed, almost sizzling with heat as he recalled Mary Watson (she had touched him lightly, knowing how touching him at all disrupted everything):

"_Yes, whatever you're asking yourself at the moment, the answer is always yes."_

"May I - may I be given the opportunity to explain?"

Molly tilted her head, hair falling across her shoulder, like a child, an ingenue. His yearning to touch her prickled, realisation burning like a bone saw.

She spoke rapidly, fierce, eyebrows drawn down, mouth quivering, tight with emotion:

"You help me, fix my bloody drainpipe, teach me and hold me like a matador and then, the moment you inhale my grief, you abscond to Gothenburg."

A moment passed, a clock ticked out another measure of time used up.

Sherlock Holmes was momentarily silent, his love for her pulsing beneath his skin, catching his breath and scattering it into the four winds. It was not supposed to happen, none of it.

He sighed.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

**~x~**

**Part 7: What you need**

Molly's soles were thin, worn and wholly inadequate for four hundred year old London cobbles she considered, but then getting dressed this morning (as in most recent mornings) had not really been a considered event at all.

The alleyway was narrow, dark, winding, drainpipes and weeds plucking at her coat sleeve like depressive thoughts as she followed him through it.

The sky was already darkening and she could momentarily glimpse a shadowy moon emerging in the thin sliver of sky between the buildings above her head. Molly felt she was descending, travelling deeper into the underbelly of a huge, ponderous and ancient beast that would slowly digest her entirely. Strangely, for the first time in weeks she was unafraid; lighter, calmer, and with pink-pricks of brightness blooming from within as she walked behind Sherlock, cossetted in a protective carapace of trust and silence.

She had no idea where or even if this little pub existed, but found she didn't really care. As the walls of the ancient, bowed buildings twisted and turned, growing closer with every corner they navigated, he held out a gloved hand behind him without even looking to check she was there, and she was shocked to find herself taking it. Dodgy London docklands did not matter; tiny, skittering feet and muffled snuffling sounds did not matter; occasional bursts of raucous laughter and blaring music from slammed doors and windows did not matter, because she knew what safe was, because she held it in her hand.

Suddenly he halted beneath the orange tungsten of a newly-lit bulb and turned towards a looming building. Molly heard the lap of the water and the shriek of gulls and could smell raw fish and the butterscotch tang of fermenting hops. The sign above the door looked battered and possibly hand-made but she could hear low music and feel the warmth from the windows as they neared.

"'_The Gloria Scott_'? A woman?"

"A ship." He looked down at her, at their joined hands and smiled at her. "They know me here," he added, pushing open the door.

**~x~**

No one let them buy a drink.

"Miss, your money's no good here, not if you're with Sherlock!"

A small, waxen-faced girl, bent cruelly by juvenile idiopathic arthritis but sharp-eyed and quick-witted brought dark, ruby porter and set it down surprisingly gently.

"You'll like it, don't worry," she grinned watching her, watching Sherlock as he accepted further greetings and welcomes from clientele.

"Well, Sherlock, I've never seen her since that day!" A red-haired man raised a battered tankard, grinning widely.

"Almost seven years," returned Sherlock, pulling Molly away, towards a wood-panelled booth in the corner.

"Aye, and I couldn't be happier!" added the man, cackling, friends clapping him on the back. "All thanks to you!"

"You've a bottle of rum behind the bar from Davy MacPherson after that business with the carpet," added the girl lighting candles to brighten the gathering darkness as they sat down.

"If the lady likes a_ Dark and Stormy_." She smiled again at Molly and cheekily turned on her heel as Sherlock shook his head.

"Thank you Scarlett," he rejoined firmly, nodding to the empty bar. "I suspect you have customers waiting."

Molly tentatively sipped the porter and it warmed her with a soft, vanilla glow that spread through her tired bones. It tasted like comfort.

"You come here quite a lot don't you?" she watched his face in the flickering candles, feeling her anger and resentment ebb away like the darkening tide outside the grimy windows.

"From time to time."

"With John?"

"With no-one. No-one else knows about it, until now."

His long fingers folded and unfolded around his glass and the murmur of the bar receded.

"Sometimes, I - sometimes I need to be - _somewhere else_. Away from Mycroft, Baker Street, Scotland Yard, even John." He looked down, fingers still.

"Sometimes I don't want to be anyone's _anything_ \- a detective, a brother, a friend. It's too much - the responsibility of caring - it's too much and I - I need to hide from it."

She held her breath.

"I am so frequently not a good brother, not a good lodger and not a good friend."

Molly pushed his glass towards him, their fingers brushing like static.

"Drink this, doctor's orders."

The gulls were silent now, the night sky encouraging their roosting in the eaves of these ancient dockland buildings, but she could still hear the soft hiss and retreat of the turning tide and the dull clunk of wooden hulls nudging harbour walls.

Molly sipped again, then gathered herself.

"This is such a load of rubbish Sherlock," she said, calmly and pleasantly. He recoiled, eyes locking with hers, shock evident.

"You spend every day working out people's problems and making them, for the most part, happier people. No, you need to listen this time. The days of explaining away your consultancy as a series of intellectual exercises to stave off boredom are _history_ \- the ancient kind with dinosaurs and inconvenient meteor showers."

He said nothing, but his eyes remained focused on her own. She continued.

"Caring is not so abhorrent to you that you avoid it daily. People around you aren't masochists and that big, stony heart of yours seems to have more than enough room." She listed on her fingers. "John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Greg, even ruddy Wiggins, and _most definitely_ Mycroft."

Sherlock stared and she found herself exhilarated.

"Probably Eurus too," she added, thinking. "Based on recent events."

"Janine sends me a photograph of her children every Christmas." His words just tumbled out, and Molly smiled.

"And then there's Irene," she added, with the ghost of a wink, and he knew the worst was probably over; he was forgiven.

"Point is, Sherlock, you really do have to face the awful truth - people _like you._"

"God - "

"And you like them - no, you _love_ them. You have friends because you deserve them; because you are a good man, whether you like it or not."

She sat back, fingers playing over whorls and grooves (and possibly pirate dagger holes) that scarred the table beneath them. Sherlock's cheekbones glowed hectic, igniting his usual pallor and his eyes looked down at her fingers and she knew he wanted to hold them.

"I know what I said that night," she continued, watching his lashes flicker, making him look so young, so raw.

"I was pretty drunk but I do remember what I said to you but I was too embarrassed to admit it."

"Ah … I see."

"Do you? I think you imagine, Sherlock, that I would try to laugh it off, as a drunken, silly joke - but I won't." She heard his breathing change; it really was her who was the detective tonight wasn't it?

"I said you were my favourite because it's true."

Then Molly Hooper reached out and folded warm, healing fingers around his cold, pale ones and she squeezed them, as if to punctuate her words.

"I have many people I love and care about and losing my mum left a hole in the world, but I know I can carry on because it just makes me happy, every day, to know that _you_ are in it too. You don't need to say anything Sherlock, but I am pretty sober now and I needed you to hear it. You can horrify and delight me in a single sentence; your chaos is my order and your troubles are very much mine too, whether you like it or not. You are frequently selfish, thoughtless, generous, overly dramatic and heroically brave. You take the world on your shoulders and you help the weak and give people hope when their lives are broken."

She felt too strong, too elated at the freedom she felt to even shed a tear, so instead, Molly took a slightly shaky breath.

"You're also quite the dancer," she whispered, closing her eyes as he pulled her close,enveloping her in the warmth of his coat, the rough weave against her cheek and the faint lemon, tobacco and (possibly) formaldehyde smell that was just … him.

She felt the vibration of his words like the rumble of a lullaby.

"I am - _honoured_ \- to be a favourite of yours, Molly Hooper. I needed to be. Your worth, your compassion, your loyalty and your unwavering strength has always been there, and it's always been there for me. I am assuredly and immeasurably fortunate."

He could not yet speak of what it had been like to hold her against himself, moving with her; to twist and to turn and feel the beat of her heart with each step taken. Perhaps in another decade or two he could do it again.

"Damn right you are," she murmured, from the depths, smiling against his chest.

She knew it was Scarlett approaching the table, although she was unable (unwilling) to lift her head.

"Taxi's on its way Sherlock," said Scarlett, and Molly knew that the girl was smiling too.

**~x~**

* * *

**A/N: One more chapter to go!**


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"This is clearly not the work of a medical student. This is pink Himalayan salt, currently on sale in Asda for less than a pound, and has no place in a laboratory nor a dissection table."

We stared down at the severed ears amongst the salt, lying slightly dessicated and yellowing within the cardboard shoe box. On consideration, I decide, the Nike logo had been an unfortunate choice.

"In addition," Sherlock stretched out his left arm and consulted his watch (when did he get a watch? He's derided the necessity for 'assisted time-keeping' for ages - like everyone should have a built-in knowledge of which moment they inhabit every second of the day).

"In addition," repeated Sherlock, slightly (but noticeably) faster, "the rough hack used to incise these ears is less suited to a student of medicine than a meat slicing operative at the local deli."

He glanced quickly towards the fluttering police tape cordoning off the main road again as Lestrade peered over his shoulder.

"Mmm… OK," murmured the Detective Inspector, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, also noting, as well as the tragic party of pinnas in the box, the unfocused, fidgety demeanour of his favourite consultant.

"You need to be somewhere Sherlock?"

"Not in the slightest (checking his phone again). I am merely awaiting information … from Wiggins … in relation to some … unresolved chemical distillations."

First I'd heard of it.

"I, er, really thought this one would be right up your street Sherlock - like a nine or ten or something." He shook his head.

" 'specially after we got Christie's twin brother last week."

Truthfully, I was late picking up Rosie from nursery one afternoon after the newspapers, breakfast news and at least four radio stations had camped out on the pavement at Baker Street. However, far from basking in the plaudits of the Press, the Met and even his own brother, Sherlock had been keeping a distinctly low profile.

Odd.

Uncharacteristic.

Suspicious even.

"I don't get it," mused Greg, as we both watched Sherlock leap over the barrier, checking his watch and hailing a taxi simultaneously. "Severed body parts were always his favourite."

I shook my head.

Strange how some things never change.

Until they do.

**~x~**

Just over a week later I galloped sweatily up the seventeen stairs, later than late thanks to the Tube strike and stressed beyond reason by a dead phone battery. Sherlock and I had arranged to rendezvous at 221B by ten that morning before setting off to Surrey for a meeting with a new client - a Miss Stonor, who had serious misgivings about moving in with her stepfather. Convinced he had left without me, I decided I'd leave a written note as Mrs Hudson was out and technology had done little but let me down thus far.

The sitting room was silent as the grave as I entered, preparing to step over various newspapers, textbooks and scientific detritus to forge my pathway to the kitchen.

Perhaps I had been presumptuous.

A clear and uncluttered sitting room with neatly drawn curtains and tidily stacked paperwork gave way to wiped-down kitchen benches and folded tea-towels. A quick glance in the fridge revealed nothing more distressing than a slightly out-of-date strawberry yoghurt, half a kit-kat and an actual, sodding avocado! No thumbs, no human heads, not even the odd eyeball. Quite bizarre, I considered as I slowly closed the door: more _Vitalite_ than vitreous now.

There was no sound but the ticking clock and a low rumble of traffic from the London streets below. Glancing at my watch I estimated Sherlock to be nearing Stoke Moran village within the next fifteen minutes, possibly livid with his inability to reach me in order to berate my tardiness. Despite the natural urge to avoid this, I decided against the note and looked haphazardly about for a charger, unsure of the whereabouts of anything anymore (were those actual tie-backs on the curtains?) until I noticed his bedroom door ajar. Fearful of being incommunicado more than anything else, Sherlock always kept a charger in his bedside drawer (plus a spare if one happened to fail) I considered, in the few moments it took to stride across the (obstacle free) room and throw open his bedroom door.

"_Jesus!"_

Clutching my chest like a Victorian heroine, I stepped back against the door jamb, as my heart threatened to pound its way out in shock.

"Jesus! Sherlock! Oh, good God!"

"For goodness sake John, make up your mind."

He lay sprawled across rumpled, tangled bed sheets, eyes heavy (although now crinkling with amusement) and hair wildly awry.

"You scared me half to death!"

"It IS my bedroom John; a room in which I customarily sleep. Hardly ground-breaking."

Sherlock sat up slowly, yawning hugely and wrapping the majority of his pale skin in blue Egyptian cotton. I goggled.

"You're in Stoke Moran!"

"Nope." Long fingers ran through untameable hair as he smiled sleepily at me. He looked … I considered as he reached across to check his phone … he looked _different._

"But, you said - "

"CCTV," he yawned again. " Courtesy of Miss Stonor and a particularly helpful member of the Leatherhead Constabulary, a Sergeant Latimer, who set up cameras as instructed."

"You mean - ?"

"Caught Roylott in the act."

"So it WAS him!"

"Him and his trained_ Proatheris Supercillaris_. Swamp adder," he clarified without looking up. "All the better to bite wealthy step-daughters and prevent them leaving, along with their inheritance."

I decided I'd take all this in better at a lower centre of gravity, so slid down the door frame accordingly until I was sitting on the floor of my friend's bedroom, looking up at his cheery, sheet-wrapped demeanour.

"_A poisonous snake_. You worked that out without even going down to Surrey?"

He waved pale fingers dismissively, eyes on the phone and texting rapidly.

"He owned an iguana and a heat lamp; she frequently heard high pitched sounds (whistles are commonly used in training reptiles), the metallic grates between the rooms, the way her sister described a 'speckled band', his innumerable stock market losses and gambling debts - "

Sherlock took one final glance at his phone, smiling briefly before throwing it down on the bed.

"I really didn't need to go down there in the end, so I went to bed."

I felt resentment bubbling up inside as flashing images of overcrowded tube stations and babysitting dilemmas jostled for space in a frankly overloaded brain.

"You couldn't have told me last night?"

Sherlock Holmes, so fond of searching out artifice in the faces of others, seemed unable to completely meet my eye as he reached for a dressing gown and I staggered to my feet.

"Exhausted," he shrugged. "Could barely keep my eyes open."

"Must have been all the housework you've been doing."

Our eyes met momentarily and I realised what it was - how he looked that morning.

He looked happy.

**~x~**

"Don't worry about closing the door, it'll save time as you leave."

Sherlock stood at his window staring down into Baker Street as his brother entered, ignoring his sibling as the latter sat down languidly in John's chair, picking up a newspaper and casually perusing the headlines. Mycroft was never unknowingly casual.

"Merely passing, brother mine. So enchanting to hear your heavy caseload hasn't impeded your dedication to composition. You really didn't have to put away your violin for me; I am more than pleased to hear how your _sul tasto_ is improving."

Sherlock hated how his brother missed nothing whilst simultaneously missing everything.

"Perhaps if the bow was infinitesimally further across the fingerboard, your higher harmonics may be more successful."

Sherlock scowled.

"If that, indeed, was your intention?" Mycroft continued, vulpine, teasing. "Softer? _Ethereal_ even?" He laid down the newspaper, tilting his head. "One might almost suggest, _Romantic_?"

"Did you come merely to discuss my violin technique Mycroft? Eurus would be delighted. She always imagined you a thwarted … _teacher_, rather than a performer."

Despite the tiniest flicker, Mycroft was seemingly _un_-dissuaded.

"Ah, Sherlock, I am merely sharing my unbridled _joy_ at your creativity evolving from the rather plebeian chore of detective work into the sublime realm of music. Your compositions have always enthralled me, my favourite being the time you were bored and devised your own dawn chorus to encourage us all to get up earlier. Happy times."

Sherlock reached behind the cushion for his hastily stashed instrument, forbidding the colour from his face by sheer power of his will. Mycroft always did this to him; foraging into his brain to wheedle out the most delicate, private thoughts. It was one of the reasons he'd deleted feelings in the first place.

Not any more.

He lifted the violin gently, feeling the comfort of its soft contours and reassuring density of its maple back. He looked Mycroft directly in the eye as he cradled its neck defiantly and lifted the bow.

"Newly- strung I see."

"Mongolian horse hair."

"I've read good reviews."

"Of course you have."

Sherlock kept eye contact as he drew the bow, shamelessly _sul tasto_, and played his newborn, precious composition for his brother. The notes rose upwards and outwards, climbing slowly at first, delicate and uncertain, then gaining in power, in speed, into a pulse that did not fade but reached out and held its own. It was lightness, it was freedom, it was heart.

Sherlock completely forgot his audience of one until the last note drifted out of the open window and made its joyous way down amongst the bustling city dwellers of London.

He lowered his arms, expecting little more than the habitual obloquy of his brother's commentary, but Mycroft's eyes were flashing an emotion he did not truly recognise.

He stood suddenly, almost flustered as he reached for his umbrella.

Sherlock smiled, a new and liberating confidence surging up within him, and he held the frog of his bow, swinging it between finger and thumb.

"Passable?"

Mycroft stopped and turned as he stepped towards the open door.

"Exquisite," he said, almost matter-of-factly. "Your composition, little brother, has finally benefited from its true origins."

Sherlock tapped his temple with the bow. "All up here," he said.

"No," replied his brother. "Not this time."

He left the door open on his way out.

**~x~**

Mary was at the top of the tube station steps a full thirty seconds before me, but she continued our conversation as if the sprint from the platform to make it for curtain up had never occurred. It was, as far as I was concerned, a completed conversation, but my wife had affected to disagree.

"An avocado? You're absolutely sure?"

I puffed, holding onto the metal railings and making gym-related promises I knew I'd never keep.

"And yet you totally believed me when I mentioned the frog intestines last month."

We started walking again, somewhat briskly, since these tickets had been Christmas presents from my sister, and she would most definitely require a detailed review of the whole performance.

"Frogs in Sherlock's fridge I can believe, but a bloody avocado, just no."

"So he's doing _Veganuary_? How long have we nagged him to eat properly? Maybe he's finally getting down with a healthy lifestyle …"

Despite our now inevitable lateness, Mary stopped suddenly in front of a highly graffiti-ed bus shelter and turned towards me with something I like to call _'that look'_.

"Remember John, we've had this conversation before about the seeing and the not observing?"

"Hey, it's bad enough hearing that from him!"

We continued walking, but mercifully less briskly. The theatre was still over two bridges and an underpass away and I was already reconciled not seeing a musical about bodyguards; it seemed a little too close to home to be honest.

"Sorry, but we've got to draw conclusions; it's all too obvious John."

"It's sometimes a mistake to go straight for the obvious-"

"And sometimes it isn't. Listen, when did you last see Sherlock?"

"Yesterday."

"And when did you last see Molly?"

"The day before - on Tuesday. At Bart's," I added, proud of the extra detail.

"And when," asked my dear wife as we dawdled past a series of inviting looking bars and pubs, "did you last see them together? In the same room?"

I stopped in front of a bar called _'Simpsons of the Strand_' and considered.

It had been at least four weeks, not since she'd returned to work after losing her mum.

"Why do you think that is?" she queried, intensifying _'that look'_ to a new level.

I gave Mary a little nod; it was time.

"Fancy a drink instead?"

"God, yes."

So we went inside.

**~x~**

"Glad you could make it Sherlock; we really need your opinion on this."

"Of course you do."

Greg strode eagerly before us, opening doors along the corridor, drawing us in with his need.

"Sanderson's been on with the distillations for days, but isn't making the kind of progress we'd like to see."

"Predictable. You should have asked me in earlier."

More doors, more echoing footsteps.

"You seemed busy; John says you've been tied up lately."

I carried on marching, eyes ground-ward and grateful of Mary's absence.

**~x~**

"I'm so glad I ran into you Mary! The tubes are a nightmare at this time of day and it was pretty short notice."

Mary took the corner tightly, like she dealt with London traffic every day.

"No problem, I was just out and about, testing out the new wheels!"

Molly Hooper surveyed the immaculate dashboard and spotless interior in appreciation. Mary was grateful she'd removed any official looking badges before setting off.

"It's not like me to be so disorganised," continued Molly, knuckles whitening slightly as Mary took another corner enthusiastically. "But Mike's text was urgent and I can swap my day off next week anyway." Another squeal of tyres gave her pause, then: "I did have stuff to do actually, but he can be quite persuasive when he wants to be."

"I can imagine," commented Mary, who didn't really have to. "He'll owe you one for this."

As they swerved enthusiastically onto Giltspur Street, Molly was both grateful and relieved as she swiftly leapt out of the car.

"You did that so gracefully," smiled Mary benignly, as she leant over to close the door. "Glad to see those dance lessons are paying off."

Pulling away, she and the borrowed government car were swallowed up into the London traffic before Molly could make a reply.

**~x~**

The lab was silent and empty and Sherlock Holmes cursed his own elevated levels of norepinephrine, dopamine and phenylethylamine for allowing such a fogging up of his thought processes. He turned, arms folded towards his two captors, formally known as friends.

"There are no distillations."

"Not really," replied Greg Lestrade, smiling.

"But, just in case you needed assistance, we've replaced Sanderson for you," added John Watson, opening the opposite laboratory door as Molly entered, flustered, out of breath and still wearing her coat. To be fair, she was remarkably quick thinking, making Sherlock glow with pride.

"Oh… morning Sherlock _(left his bed less than two hours ago)_, fancy seeing you here! It's actually my day off, but Mike _(totally in on the whole thing) _asked me to ... wow! It's great seeing you. How've you been? _(incandescent; beautiful; perfect. Too much of you is never enough)_ What … erm … what do you need?"

Sherlock tilted his head, looking at her without mask or artifice and eyes glittering with unchecked emotion.

Ignoring all but her, he held out a hand and she took it, smiling right back.

"I need _you_," said Sherlock Holmes, just before he kissed her, "because you've always, always been my favourite."

D


End file.
